


Even In Death

by mynameisfireheart



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, F/F, F/M, Kingdom of Ash, Lots of Angst, too much angst maybe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2019-10-10 09:43:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17423507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisfireheart/pseuds/mynameisfireheart
Summary: The Queen of Terrasen is dead, her body and soul given to forge the lock that contains the Wyrd Keys. But Prince Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius remembers the promise he made to her: that even if death separated them, he would find a way to see them reunited. And he refuses to accept that this is their fate—to have loved so thoroughly only for it to be gone in an instant. And he refuses to accept that this is the fate of his mate—who endured so much, who gave so much, only to meet death like a lamb to the slaughter. How will the Prince manage to collect the shattered pieces of his Queen’s soul? And what risks must he take to do it?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is canon compliant up until the Lock scene in Kingdom of Ash, it fits in after the Lock scene and before the final battle at Orynth.

Aelin felt the last of her life force, of her soul, of the gift her mother had given her, drain out of her. She felt some now unknown bond pull tight and then snap, and heard a cry as it broke—a cry of pure pain and anguish. A cry that reminded her of pain she’d once felt herself.

It seemed like a lifetime ago now.

She watched as the lock closed, as Mala, and all the other beings who had styled themselves as gods, walk through the Wyrdgate and back to the world they had been born in.

And then it was over, and she felt the pieces of her soul dissolve into nearly nothing.

And she felt no more.

****

Rowan felt Aelin dying. He felt her dissolving into nothing, felt the mating bond shred inside of his chest, breaking apart.

He clung to it. Pulled at the invisible chain inside himself, yanked it deeper within, buried it so far, and held onto it so tight, that he hoped it forced her to live.

 _Live live live_ he said over and over again, not knowing if he was speaking the words aloud or not.

_Live._

_Live._

_Live._

The mating bond was barely there anymore, barely a whisper of what it had been, and the woman on the other end, that bright spark of life, was almost snuffed out completely. Still, he pulled it deeper and deeper, clung to it like he was drowning in the ocean and it was a rope thrown, or a hand extended.

 _Live_ he said.

He felt the other end of the bond go silent.

Pain like he’d never known shot through him. He screamed and screamed, bellowing his pain, his anguish into the world, unaware of the king and king’s hand beside him, unaware of anything but the unending chasm that had opened inside of him.

He screamed for loss of Aelin. But he also screamed in fear. Fear of facing that chasm, that black void, alone.

And then, deep inside, in the place he’d buried the bond, a ember sparked to life.

****

Rowan screamed—bellowed—in pain. Chaol had never heard a noise like it in his entire life, not even from Dorian when Sorscha had died. It cracked something in his chest, made him flinch away as the man beside him continued to scream and scream.

Rowan crawled forward and towards Aelin.

“Don’t break the cir—

“Chaol, it’s done,” Dorian said, his voice tired and weary and older than he’d ever sounded. “Aelin is...she’s…

Rowan had picked Aelin’s body up and cradled her in his arms. He was speaking words to her in a language Chaol did not understand.

The fae male turned to look at Chaol and the look on his face held nothing human. It was pure, undiluted rage. And emptiness.

Chaol saw an assassin in a sewer, a gutted corpse in front of her, her eyes dead, unseeing.

“Get Yrene,” Rowan snarled.

“My wife—

“Get Yrene,” Rowan said again, his voice even more feral now.

“Chaol, please,” Dorian said. “Get Yrene. Maybe there is...maybe there is something that can be done for her.”

Chaol nodded, and left to get his wife. But he had learned enough about healing from his time at the Torre to know that nothing could be done for death.

****

 

Yrene’s hands moved over Aelin, calm and patient. Kind. Hafiza stood across from her, her face lined with age and worry. They had moved her body from the mines and back to her tent, to the bed they had shared for a few weeks. Rowan almost couldn’t look at her. He didn’t want to look at her lifeless body, at her pale skin and long hair, didn’t want to see her without the spark of life he’d come to know so well. He forced himself to anyway. He would bear witness to everything his mate had endured, and endure it with her. That was the least he could do.

Rowan stopped himself from asking Yrene to go faster, to speak, to tell him what he needed to do next.

Because he did not accept that his Fireheart was dead. He did not accept that they had found each other and then fought for each other, only to be separated so soon after meeting. He would not accept that his life amounted to this—that he had met his mate only to lose her, and that there was nothing he could do to get her back.

Aelin had never accepted anything in her entire life, not until the Lock, and he knew that she’d not gone down without a fight, without a few tricks up her sleeve.

And so he would not accept this, not for a single moment. After Lyria...after Lyria he had accepted it too easily. Yes, he’d grieved, for too many years. But he had never really recovered. He had allowed himself to become cold and unfeeling, a male she would not have loved. A male who would have terrified her. He hadn’t changed himself or fought to be a better person for her memory.

He hadn’t fought for his own life. He’d blindly listened to Maeve, doing her bidding, wrecking cities in her name.

It had not been until he’d met Aelin that he’d really started to live again.

“We cannot bring her fully back to life, Rowan,” Yrene said, her voice steady and calm.

Rowan wanted to rage at her but...but he could not yell at this woman who his Fireheart had helped. He could not turn on her when all she had ever offered was aid.

“But,” Hafiza said, “we can keep her in a type of stasis. We can keep her heart beating, her lungs breathing, and nourish her. You did well in bringing her to us so soon, her organs had not yet died.”

Rowan nodded, though he almost vomited at the mention of her organs. Aelin was not a collection of body parts, or even a beating heart or rushing blood. She was a burning, raging, fire. A brightly burning candle lighting up the darkness. A warm, comforting fire.

She was a soul. A person. She was not...she was not what he saw before him on the table.

“It will not be a true life,” Hafiza continued. “I would advise against—

“You will keep her in this...this stasis,” Rowan ground out.

“And what of her soul? It is her soul that is missing, that is the part of her we are unable to retrieve,” Hafiza said, undaunted by him.

“I will get it back.”

The others stared at him blankly.

“We don’t have the keys anymore, Rowan,” Dorian said. His voice was heavy with sadness, and Rowan was reminded that Aelin had been loved widely, by many more than just him.

Rowan held up his fist. Flames encircled it, flaring to life in the dim tent.

“How,” Fenrys breathed, shifting from wolf to male and rising from the corner he had been curled in.  

“I think I saved a piece of her soul. I tugged on the bond, pulled it so hard that when she...when she died, I managed to force a piece of her to stay. Inside myself.”

“Can a mating bond do that?” Dorian questioned.

“I’ve heard stories of mates saving one another’s lives, but never of preventing true death. Though in Rowan’s case, his bond with Aelin...runs deeper than that. He is her carranam and blood sworn and mate,” Fenrys said. “And he is a man of particular conviction.”

“That being said, it is not my wife’s job to stay here and care for Aelin’s body while you are off on some hunt to try and find her soul,” Chaol said, leaning heavily on his cane.

Rowan merely snarled in response, canines flashing.

“Yrene is the only one who can face Erawan now,” Dorian said softly. “We need her Rowan. And Terrasen needs you.”

Again, Rowan simply snarled.

“Fortunately for you, Yrene is not the only healer this side of the sea,” Hafiza said with a small smile.

“And are you capable of keeping her alive?” Rowan asked.

“I am the Healer on High of the Torre Cesme. I believe I can do an adequate job. Though I will need a quiet, safe place to stay and a team of healers to aid me.”

Rowan simply nodded, and stalked out of the tent.

****

_And Terrasen needs you._

The King’s words echoed in Rowan’s head over and over again as he soared through the skies to the edge of the Oakwald.

He knew that Aelin would have agreed with Dorian. That she would expect him to go aid in saving her people and her homeland, just as she had when Maeve had taken her. He had known, when they had married and when he had taken her last name, what was expected of him. He was a Galathynius now, and a Galathynius’s duty was to Terrasen, first and foremost.

But what was Terrasen to him without Aelin? A dream? A hope? An ideal? It was a life he had barely let himself imagine, and when he did, she was always by his side. He had never been to Orynth, not once in his centuries of wandering. He did not know the white walled city as home yet, and it’s people would not love him as they loved his Fireheart.

And in truth, it was not Terrasen that mattered to him, though the promise of a homeland had been nice. It had been more than he deserved, but what he so desperately wanted after so many years with no ties except to Maeve and the cadre. But he had found that home was wherever Aelin Galathynius was. Home was her apartment in Rifthold, and the camps they had made while stalking the Valg in Mistward, and it was even Doranelle, if she was with him. Home was the smell of her hair—crackling embers and jasmin—and the feel of her body next to his.

Terrasen was not home, so he would not fight for it, not just yet.

But Aelin was home, and for her he would fight until his last breath.

****

When Rowan alighted at the edge of the Oakwald, he transitioned back to his fae form and began gathering up twigs. An orange leaf, for her flames. A delicate dried yellow flower for her hair. A bit of fluff for her dress. A silvery twig for her sword.

The effigy he fashioned was rough, and certainly not as well done as the hawk that the Little Folk had once made for him, but it was undeniably Aelin. When he was done, he set it down gently on the forest floor and then sat beside it to wait.

While he waited, he toyed with the ember of flame he now possessed, passing it along his knuckles as he had often seen Aelin do. It’s presence was soothing, and calmed the fierce ache in his chest to a dull pain. He would get her back. He wouldn’t let himself consider any other possibility.

He built up a small pile of leaves and twigs, and set it alight, keeping the flames burning without using any of the fuel. If he was going to have fire magic, he would learn to use it well.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement across the ground and heard the pitter-patter of a hundred feet. Then the Little Folk were in front of him, spindle legs and wings glinting in the dying winter light.

He offered the effigy to them, palms outstretched, reverent. Tiny hands met his and took what he proffered. They tilted their heads to the side in question.

“Her soul is no longer of this world,” Rowan said, in the old tongue, feeling a tear snaking down his cheek.

The Little Folk let out a collective wail, and seemed to vibrate with sadness, the news having agitated them.

“I need your help, to get her back. Will you look after her body, keep her safe?”

They nodded in unison and then scampered off.

****

Rowan did not let himself sigh as he sat down on the edge of the lavish bed in his queen’s tent. He breathed in measured counts, in out, in out, in out. To do anything else, to raise his voice, to sigh loudly, to expel the hollow, ragged feeling in his chest would be to acknowledge that she was gone, that she was—

He forced himself to breathe, in out, in out, in out, and picked up the tattoo kit from the nightstand. He had been staying in here without her even though he hardly deserved the finery. King of Terrasen. He scoffed at the idea. As if he was fit to rule…

He unbound the leather straps that held his tools and uncorked the bottle of ink. He chose a needle carelessly. Added more salt to the mixing bowl than he normally would have.

It didn’t matter.

He didn’t really care what it looked like. And he wanted it to hurt. He just needed something to help him separate the days, to count them, to remind him in his grief and that this was the present. That this hell was happening, and that he could not become lost to it, that he could not give into his hawk and ignore the task he set for himself.

He made a single, horizontal line on the inside of his wrist.

One.

Today was the day that Aelin had died.

He did not let himself think on how many lines he might have by the time he was done.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowan begins the first stages of the quest to find Aelin's soul.

The next morning, he brought Hafiza, a team of healers, and supplies for a month to the edge of the forest. Most traveled on horseback, with Hafiza sitting in a small carriage with Aelin’s body beside her. She needed a constant flow of healing magic to keep her heart beating, and her organs viable. Hafiza would tend to her during the day, with the other healers working in shifts during the night. 

The Little Folk scampered out to meet them and gestured for them to follow. They walked through the tangle of the Oakwald, and Rowan allowed himself a moment to imagine Aelin here as a child: had she gotten the chance to venture here often? To explore the trees and caves, animals, plants and insects that the forest had to offer? Had Rhoe taken her here? 

He imagined that she hadn’t. She’d told him how uncontrolled her magic had been as a child. It wouldn’t have been safe to allow her near so much kindling. He resolved that when he got her back they would spend some time here, exploring the forests of her homeland. 

The little folk lead them deeper into the forest, through the tall, wide oaks, down moss covered paths, and past glimmering, frost covered ponds. Rowan felt the wild calling to him. How easy it might be to shift into his hawk and never emerge. To give himself over to the beast, to forget the man. 

Yet he knew that even his hawk would mourn the loss of his Fireheart. 

The Little Folk paused before a great tree the width of six men standing side by side. One by one they walked forward and disappeared into the trunk. They motioned for the healers, the carriage that carried Hafiza and Aelin, and Rowan to follow. 

The horses, however, refused to go through the trunk, unable, of course, to understand that it was a gateway. 

“King,” Hafiza said, addressing him. “Come. You must carry her body for me, and we will enter the gateway together.” 

Rowan nodded woodenly, and reached to help the old woman out of the carriage. He picked Aelin’s body up gently.

She was lighter now than ever, without the weight of the lock on her shoulders, and without her fiery soul. She was breathing, and his fae senses could hear her heart beating. But there was no—no  _ Aelin  _ in her anymore. Still, he cradled her body against his, and followed close behind Hafiza. 

The gateway lead to a cavern he had been in once before, after Aelin’s rescue. He remembered clearly the way she had released her flames into the water, heating it up. How they had swam together, how he had wanted to touch her, ached with it, with the need to run a hand up her arm, her side. Just to feel that she was truly alive and safe before him. 

The healers looked in wonder at the Little Folk’s haven, at the twinkling lights and calm pools of water, at the vines that hung from the ceiling, and the soft sound of water dripping. 

“We will truly be safe here?” Hafiza asked. 

The Little Folk nodded vigorously in unison. 

“Come, Rowan, let us get her comfortable,” Hafiza said, motioning Rowan towards the bed that the healers were already setting up for Aelin’s body. 

He laid her down amongst the blankets almost reverently. Though her body served as a reminder that she was dead, it was also his last and most real connection to her. He would have to get through the next weeks and the trials they carried without being able to see her face. 

He was reminded of another time, another separation, and a voyage across the sea to find her. Of an apartment in the slums, and her cries as she beheld him for the first time in months. 

“Thank you,” he said to Hafiza as he forced himself to turn away from her. “This...this is above and beyond what you—

“Nonsense,” she said cutting him off. “I am a healer. And though...though I do not believe in cheating death, I also do not think it was right what the gods forced that girl to go through. She deserves a second chance.” 

Rowan nodded his thanks. And then crouched down to do the same to the Little Folk. 

“I would trust no one else with this,” he said solemnly. It was true. He wouldn’t have even allowed Dorian or Elide, Fenrys even, to tend to the Queen’s body while he hunted for her soul. But—the Little Folk, they would honor her as their rightful sovereign. 

Rowan left without saying another word, and catching a strong wind on the wings of his hawk, flew back to the camp. 

He knew exactly who he needed to summon to get back what he’d lost. He had never spoken to, nor seen her before, but he was sure she would help him. 

 

****

Rowan stalked into the King of Adarlan’s tent without making himself known. He didn’t care if the King was stark naked. He needed Dorian’s expertise—he didn’t have time to comb through the books Yrene and Chaol had brought from the south. 

“Good of you to announce yourself,” Dorian said, from the cot where he laid. 

Rowan growled. “This is not the time for jokes.”

“Some would say it’s not the time to waste resources on a fool’s errand.”

In an instant, Rowan had Dorian’s shirt in his fist. The King made no move to retaliate. 

“It is not a fool’s errand. Nor is it an errand you of all people should be against. It could have been you.” Rowan heard how guttural his own voice was, knew his canines were flashing, knew that the strength he generally reined in was now fully turned at the man before him. 

“You’re right. It should have been me,” Dorian bit out. 

“Then why do you trivialize...why do you not think—

“Because I do not want to hope! And I do not want you to hope as well, only to be crushed again. Because the Lock took my own father’s soul right before my eyes! Because it did the same to Aelin. Rowan, there may not be any piece of her to retrieve.” 

Rowan released the King, and saw how he fell back listlessly into bed. 

“Rowan,” Dorian continued, “it took my father’s afterlife. The chance he had to see me, to see my mother again, to live with us as the man he should have been…

“Then what of the part of Aelin that still...that still lives within me? What of the flames I can now conjure?”

The King made no reply. 

“I need you to tell me how you summoned Gavin,” Rowan said, referring to the times he knew that Dorian had spoken with the King from ages passed.

“He will not come. Last time I tried to call him forth, Kaltain Rompier came in his stead.”

“Even better. It is her I truly need to speak with. I can think of no one else who might know the way to retrieving Aelin’s soul.” 

“How much do you know of Kaltain?” Dorian said sharply, rising to a seated position in the bed. 

“What Elide and what my mate shared with me. It did not sound as if she lead a happy life.”

Dorian winced. But he nodded. “I will show you how to summon her. But she has already endured more than enough. You will not force her to help you if she does not want to.” 

Rowan almost snorted. He knew that his mate had been one of the few in Rifthold to show Kaltain any kindness. Dorian, for all his goodness, had been content to let her rot.

****

Rowan looked down at the bloody marks surrounding his feet in the snow. He had but one mark to add, and then it would be done. 

“You may go,” he said to Dorian. 

“Are you sure?” Dorian’s voice was full of concern, and Rowan knew that the King was trying to ask him if he was okay, if he could face this potentially disastrous conversation alone. Because even if Kaltain came when he called, she might not have the answers he needed. 

“Yes. Thank you.” 

Dorian nodded and left. In the snow, Rowan drew the last Wyrd mark and whispered Kaltain’s name aloud. 

The air inside the circle shifted every so slightly, and then she was there before him, a dark haired woman in a swirling diaphanous gown. Thin, too thin, like Aelin had been when he’d first met her. 

This woman had not deserved the end she met. She had deserved a full life, a life of happiness. Rowan ground his teeth in rage. Too many. Too many women had met fates like Aelin’s, like Kaltain’s. 

“I was wondering when you’d summon me,” Kaltain said softly. 

“Have you seen her?” Rowan could hear the edge of panic in his voice. 

“No. But...I could tell when it happened. When the keys were sealed.”

“You used to be a Wyrd gate.”

Kaltain nodded. 

“Elide told us of the key in your arm. It’s how Aelin...it’s how she figured out what to do,     how to become one herself, how to forge the lock.”

“You must hate me,” Kaltain said grimly. 

“No. My mate made her own decisions. And I am making mine, now, by summoning you.”

“And why did you summon me, Rowan Whitethorn? Why rouse me from my peaceful afterlife?” 

Rowan did not apologize. “I am going to get her back.”

“Ah,” Kaltain said. 

Rowan held up a fist encircled in flame. 

Kaltain nodded. “Yes, it would seem her soul is all but shattered, kept in place only by your strength of will.”

“What does that mean?” Rowan pressed. 

“It means exactly what you think it does, what you felt as she died. The Lock took her afterlife, it shattered her soul into any number of pieces. Under normal circumstances, there is no method with which they could be put back together. No vessel that could contain them. But, Prince, you have become the vessel. A part of her soul already lives within you.” 

“But how do I...where do I go to find the rest?” 

Kaltain gave him a twist of a smile. “The realm of the afterworld.”

“The kingdom of Hellas,” Rowan breathed. 

“It is his no longer.”

Kaltain’s words confirmed what Rowan and Dorian and the others had suspected: that the gods had gone back home as they had wanted, leaving Erawan for Erilea to deal with. “Those bastards,” he cursed.

“But you must know that Aelin did not go quietly. She fought until the end. With the last of her life she opened a portal from a hellish realm into the home world of the gods. She has sealed their death.” 

Rowan could not help but laugh. His Fireheart, now a godkiller. A trick up her sleeve even as her life was ending. 

“The realm of the afterworld is in somewhat disarray without it’s previous King. New leadership must be chosen. Someone must sit on the dark throne,” Kaltain said smoothly. 

“And who might that be?” 

“It remains to be seen,” she said. “But still, that is where you must go to seek her soul. Choose one companion to bring with you, meet me—

“I go alone.”

“No,” Kaltain said, “you will take the White Wolf with you. You cannot face this alone.”

Rowan growled. 

“You will come with him. Tomorrow. Ask the King of Adarlan how to open the portal to another world. He stole that information from someone, once. I will find you.”

And with that, Kaltain Rompier disappeared. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaltain helps Fenrys and Rowan as they journey to the Afterworld to hunt down the pieces of Aelin's soul.

Fenrys tried to push aside his own pain and hurt as he looked at the broken male before him. He may have lost Connall, his twin, and then his Queen, but Rowan...Rowan was going through losing a mate, for the second time. Rowan would need his light-heartedness, his humor, now more than ever. 

He pasted a smile on his lips. “Has anyone told you have rutting bad you smell, Whitethorn.” 

“Fen,” Rowan rasped, “you don’t have to try.”

“That obvious, huh?” 

“You always were bad at lying.”

Fenrys grimaced. It was true. Of the two of them, Connall had turned out to be the far better liar. Proven by how readily he hid his feelings of animosity, and resentment, towards his own twin. How had Fenrys not noticed? How had he not known? Was he so honest as to be unable to detect artifice in another? 

“I...I need your help,” Rowan said, not meeting his eyes. 

Fenrys nodded. He had never seen Rowan like this. He had never seen him anything less than confident, calm, collected. Even when Lyria had died, he hadn’t been like this. He’d been ice cold, yes, but he’d still been sure of his every action, of his every move. Now he seemed utterly shattered, and unsure of himself. 

“Kaltain Rompier says that we must go to the Afterworld to collect the pieces of Aelin’s soul. She will not help me unless you come.” 

Fenrys sucked in a breath. “Hellas him—

“No,” Rowan said, “Hellas is dead. All of the gods are. Aelin made sure of it. His dark throne sits empty for the moment.”

“It may well afford us the opportunity we need,” Fenrys said. “I cannot imagine that Hellas would have taken kindly to our presence—Lorcan’s perhaps, but not ours.”

Rowan nodded. “Dorian will open the gate for us,” he said.

“And he’s able to do this?” Fenrys knew that the king had the ability to shape his power into whatever form he wished, but unlocking the gates to hell? He’d thought that that had only ever been possible for…but there was no way she’d ever agree to help them, and no way Rowan would ever ask. 

“I am,” said a voice from behind them. The king stepped into the clearing in the woods that they stood in. He was dressed in his night clothes, though the circles under his eyes spoke of nights spent awake. 

“How.” Rowan seemed to bite the word in half as it left his mouth. 

Fenrys could tell that he hated asking the other man for help, and that he also hated that Dorian hadn’t been the one to sacrifice himself. Fenrys felt similarly. As much as he tolerated the king, he didn’t know him as he knew Aelin, didn’t feel the same loyalty to him. And if Aelin had let the king die in her stead, Fenrys would not have loved her any less for it. 

“I stole the power from Maeve, when I encountered her at Morath. She could worldwalk, knew how to make the portals between realms with ease. I took the knowledge from her mind as my parting gift,” Dorian said, frowning a bit. 

“Do not feel badly for violating her mind,” Fenrys said. “Whatever you did to her, she deserved it.”

“I know,” Dorian said, “but there are lines I never thought I’d cross, and what I did to her is not very different from what I endured at Erawan’s hands.”

“This is war,” Rowan said sharply. “War like you’ve never seen it. The lines don’t matter anymore—not when your enemies have no lines they wouldn’t cross to beat you, nothing they wouldn’t do to win.”

“Don’t talk like that Rowan,” Dorian said. 

“Like what?”

“Like I’ll have to fight this war without you.” 

Fenrys turned his face away, he could not bear to look at Rowan’s face.

“If I do not—if I cannot get Aelin back, then I will not return myself.”

Dorian swore under his breath, and Fenrys turned to give him a sharp look. A look that said,  _ Don’t worry, I won’t let him. But don’t try to dissuade him either. _

“Then let’s make sure you can get her back,” Dorian said.

****

The portal, or gate, glimmered before them. Dorian stood to its left, unmoving, keeping it open with his mind and magic alone. Rowan didn’t bother asking him how much this cost him, knew that even if this type of magic nearly drained the king that he’d still have asked him to do it. 

At his side stood Fenrys. They were both dressed in fighting leathers and fur, with packs full of food and supplies across their backs. Strapped to their thighs and arms were more knives than either was used to carrying—there was no telling if their magic would work in the Afterworld. 

“I will open the portal again in exactly a week’s time, and keep it open for one hour. I’ll do the same the week after that. And the week after that. And so on. But I’m not sure where exactly within the realm of the Afterworld this will take you,” Dorian explained, “or if time there will be the same.”

Rowan nodded. It was a faulty system, one in which they could easily get lost, but it was the only system they had. And Rowan was willing to risk everything. Even if once he got Aelin back, she could barely stand to be with him, barely stand to be around anyone. 

Because deep in his heart, he worried that this was what Aelin had truly wanted. If after the iron coffin and Cairn she had wanted to die, and had not stopped wanting to in the weeks since. Would he be bringing her back to a life she no longer wanted?

Fenrys stepped forward, and Rowan’s hand shot out to stop him.

“Fenrys,” he said, “is this...is this what she would have wanted?”

“Yes,” his friend said, “ _ Yes _ .”

“How can we be sure?” Rowan asked.

“Because even when Maeve twisted her mind behind compare, and even when Cairn...even when he...when she was so bloodied she could barely breathe, she still wanted  _ you,  _ Rowan. She still clung to you, to the hope you presented. And to everyone else: to Lysandra and Aedion. To the promise of Terrasen. She endured because of you. I cannot believe she wouldn’t want a second chance if it were given to her.”

Rowan took a deep shaky breath. “She said...before she went to forge the lock, she said that it, that sacrificing herself, was the only reason she survived.” 

It was the doubt that he had kept locked inside himself, that he had voiced to no one. That though she wanted a life with him, it still wasn’t enough. And after what she had endured, he couldn’t fault for it. 

“You’re one hell of an idiot Rowan Whitethorn,” Fenrys snarled. 

Rowan didn’t even wince. It was the truth. 

“She survived Maeve and Cairn so that she could die saving  _ you.  _ Saving Aedion and Lysandra and Dorian and even that Chaol fellow for some damned reason. She survived so that no one...so that no one else would die for her.”

And there it was. The stark truth of Aelin Galathynius’s life. That she blamed herself—rightly or wrongly, Rowan wasn’t sure—for the deaths of her parents, Lady Marion, Sam, and Nehemia. That last one he knew still hounded her endlessly. 

And some days, Rowan still blamed himself for Lyria. It had been Maeve’s fault, but it had been his existence, and the condition of his mating bond with Aelin, that had spurred the dark queen into action. 

No longer. No longer would he allow pain and suffering to come from the love between them. He wanted to make something good out of their two lives, together. Something brilliant and bright and  _ happy _ . 

And he knew his Fireheart. Knew that she hadn’t lied when she’d said she wanted children with him. A life. 

He nodded, this time to himself, and then stepped through the portal in front of him. 

Behind him, he heard Fenrys say goodbye to Dorian, and then there was nothing, only the swirling white of the portal as he began to fall. 

****

“Graceful, Whitethorn, very graceful,” said a feminine voice through the darkness. It wasn’t one Fenrys recognized but he could guess who it was—Kaltain Rompier. Courtier, bride of Erawan, and now guide through hell. 

“Why is it so dark?” he grumbled. 

“Fen,” Rowan said, barely suppressing a laugh, “open your eyes.”

He did, and saw that he and Rowan had come through the portal and fallen on their asses on the other side. Kaltain stood a few feet away, dressed in a regal black gown, with her hair done up in an elegant twist, looking all the world like she didn’t just live in the Afterworld, but ruled over it as well. 

He hauled himself up and surveyed the landscape. Green rolling hills, the faint chirping of birds, and endless blue sky. It wasn’t what he expected. 

“What is this place?”

“Level one, as I like to call it,” Kaltain said. 

Fenrys shot her a confused look, and saw Rowan do the same. She sighed. 

“The Afterworld has sixteen levels, stacked on top of one another. Each level calls to a different type of soul. Some of the levels are for the truly good and kind. Some are for those who value comfort and wealth. Some levels are for the wicked, the assassins and thieves and those who relish danger. Other levels are for those who are neither bad nor good, who simply lived and made mistakes as we all do. There is one level for the heroes. And one for the truly evil.” 

“And each person...must stay confined to their level?” Rowan asked. He was clearly trying to determine how difficult their job would be. 

“No. Only those who are truly evil stay confined to their world, kept in by great ward stones. But most souls choose to settle in one place, travelling occasionally, but putting down roots as they would were they still alive.” Her mouth twisted into a feral smile. 

“What level did you choose?” Fenrys asked. 

“All of them. None,” she said, that same smile still on her face. 

“And Aelin?” Rowan inquired. 

“What do you think?” 

“I think that part of her belongs with the thieves and assassins. Another, larger part with those who are good and kind. And with the heroes, though she’d scoff at the idea,” Rowan answered. 

Kaltain nodded. “You have your answer, then.” She tilted her face into the breeze, and inhaled deeply. “I have to leave you soon.” 

Fenrys supposed she must have better things to do than help the two of them, but he also thought she might want to stay. To hunt the pieces of Aelin’s soul with them. 

“How do we navigate this place?” Even now, under supreme duress, Rowan was ever the pragmatist. 

“Well that doesn’t really matter, does it?” Kaltain said. “You don’t need a road map—not that we have any roads here—because the piece of Aelin that is inside of you will do all the navigating you need. Go where it wants to go. Where she would go.” 

She pulled an object out of her dress pockets and chucked it at Rowan, who snatched it from the air. 

“That will allow you to travel between levels. And be on your guard. Just because everything here is dead does not mean it cannot harm you.” 

And with that, Kaltain Rompier simply disappeared. 

****

It wasn’t that Kaltain did not want to help the two fae males, it was that she had a palace, and a throne to defend. 

When Hellas had died, days ago, she had made sure she was the first to claim his throne. Others had wanted it, but few here were as strong as Kaltain. As connected to the magic of the Wyrd as she was. 

It had been easy to claim the throne, but it was not proving easy to keep. 

She sighed as she settled against it’s hard, high back. It was made of Wyrd stone. The entire palace was. But this Wyrd stone was not like what she had grown accustomed to in Morath. This stone was truly neutral, ready to be shaped into anything she desired, neither good nor bad until she bent her will to it and it became. 

She wished for a glass of wine, and there it was beside her. She wished for a fur mantle to keep her warm, and one appeared on her shoulders. 

She wished for a crown, and so it was. 

A knock came at the door to the throne room. It echoed across the great expanse of the hall. 

“Come in, Arobynn,” she said, “You’re late.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaltain has an interesting meeting and Rowan and Fenrys make progress on their quest.

“The crown is a tad much, Kaltain,” Arobynn said, a sickly sweet smile on his face. 

Kaltain had never met him alive but from the moment she’d lain eyes on him in the Afterworld she’d hated him. Sanctimonious, manipulative, slimey, horse-faced, bastard. And when he’d introduced himself as Aelin’s “master,” her opinion of him had only gotten worse. 

She gave him a withering look, made a point of looking him up and down. He was dressed in a gleaming tunic of gold. “You’re one to talk.” 

“A king—or should I say god?—must dress for his station,” he said, approaching the throne. 

“I don’t see your throne anywhere,” Kaltain said coolly.

“You’re sitting on it.”

At that she laughed. “The palace has acknowledged me as its mistress. Its magic belongs to me.” 

It was the truth. Kaltain manifested power easily here, a sign that the palace and the throne had accepted her as its queen. 

“It’s magic might be yours, yes, but what of your citizens? Are they loyal?” 

With that, he called up a throne for himself with magic. It was smaller than hers, yes, and less ornate, but a throne nonetheless. And he’d shaped magic here just as she had. 

“You are not the only one with power here,” he continued. 

“The souls of the Afterworld never cared for Hellas and his power here was infinite,” she said, not letting her annoyance show on her face. “It doesn’t matter if they like me or not.” She refused to acknowledge that he could manifest here as well. The crown would be hers and hers alone. She would rule over the Afterworld as the Goddess of Death, and Arobynn Hamel was not going to stop her.  

“You forget from where I come, Kaltain.” The smile on his face widened. 

His soul, damned for eternity, dwelled in the level of the Afterworld devoted to those who were truly evil. Confined there, he had access only to the palace, which had entrances in each level. Hellas had been willing to hear complaints from all of his subjects, even those who were rapists and murders and unrepentant abusive assholes. 

“We want out. We want free rein to travel the Afterworld as everyone else does. We want to be rid of our shackles.”

“Sadly for you, I have no intention of loosening those wards.”

“That is not up to only you.” 

Ice gripped her heart. If he could manifest here, then perhaps he could undo the magic of the ward stones—but no, it couldn’t be that simple. Those stones were older than Hellas’s reign. Older than time. It would take more than the magic of one to break them. 

“You are a fool to think you can break the ward stones.” She swirled the glass of blood-red wine in her hand. 

“I will not be doing it alone, Kaltain. And when I—when we—succeed, you’ll be the first to know.”

With that, he got up, walked through the doors and slammed them as he left. 

Kaltain thought of who she could go to for help, and no one came to mind. Unlike other souls, she had not died and joined her family in the Afterworld. She had no one waiting for her. Her family was still alive, and had no idea what had happened to her. She had broken all friendships in the months leading up to her engagement to Perrington—or Erawan, really—such had been her hunger for power and prestige. 

No, there was no one dead or alive who would help Kaltain Rompier.   

Except, perhaps, for the Princess of Eyllwe. 

****

Rowan held the oval shaped piece of glass still in his hand. It was clear that no piece of Aelin’s soul lingered here, in level one as Kaltain had called it. And he could understand why. It was too peaceful for his Fireheart. Rolling green hills dotted with wildflowers and the occasional cottage. Endless blue sky and sun. 

For the better part of a day, he and Fenrys had trudged through the world, their magic flickering in and out. It was not constant enough to allow him to transform into his hawk, but he could put the wind at the heels every now and then, speeding their pace. 

“She’s not here,” Fenrys said. 

“No, she’s not.” And Rowan hadn’t felt anything, no pull, not even the smallest tug or twinge. Kaltain had assured them that the piece of Aelin inside of him would do the tracking for them, but nothing had happened so far. 

“It’s time for us to go,” he said. 

“But how? Kaltain gave us that piece of glass and said nothing of how it worked.” 

Rowan furrowed his brow, and turned the stone over in his hand. He thought he saw something flash within it, but the light was gone in an instant. “I’m not sure. Perhaps it is a magic of the will?”

“If we wish hard enough to get to the next level it will take us there? Magic doesn’t like that Rowan, not even the magic here.” 

Rowan fiddled with the glass again, turned it again in his hand. And then the world started to shift around him. He grabbed the front of Fenrys’s tunic at the last minute as he realized that this was how the object worked. 

It had done nothing when he turned it in his hand once, because they were already at level one. But with the second turn, it’s magic had activated. Truly, a fool could have figured it out. 

It did not feel as if they had moved anywhere. The world around them had simply shifted. Green hills and blue overhead one minute, and snow capped peaks and evergreens the next. 

“It looks just like...just like Terrasen,” Rowan said. And it did. 

The world before them was gilded in silver light from the moon above. It touched the tops of soaring pine trees, and lit up the miles of snowy mountains beyond. 

“She would love it here,” Fenrys breathed. 

Rowan smiled. The movement felt strange, the muscles in his face seemed to have forgotten what that was like. But the thought of Aelin here, even if it was just a part of her, it made him happy. She deserved some type of peace, some of what she’d never had in life. 

And then, as if she had read his mind, Rowan felt something lurch in his chest. Not a pull, really, but a frantic beating, as if a second heart now pulsed beside his own. It said  _ find me, find me, find me. I am here, I am close.  _

Rowan swallowed back the choking feeling, the tears that clogged his throat. But which way?  _ Which way, Aelin? Where are you?  _

He stumbled forward, drawn along by some invisible tether. It said,  _ this way.  _ He grounded himself and then began to run.

****

Fenrys watched as Rowan’s face went white, as his knees buckled and he nearly fell. And when he started to run—a dead sprint—Fenrys followed him. Rowan must have felt something to indicate that Aelin—or at least a part of her—was here somewhere. 

As the scenery flew by around him, Fenrys wondered who this level was for. Adventurers perhaps? The tall mountains and cold, swift rivers spoke of those who sought the heady rush of danger. Or perhaps it was for those souls who dared to dream, who always wanted to climb higher, do better, become more. 

Aelin, Fenrys knew, was both. She loved the thrill of a fight. He’d seen a glimmer of it when she’d fought Cairn in the tent, when she’s tried to goad him into killing her. She’d been out of her mind with grief and pain, but she was still a fighter. 

And when she’d pounded her fist against the iron coffin, beat the iron into submission, he’d seen her dream, and hope, for a better world, for a better life. He knew that they would find more than one part of Aelin’s soul here, in this world. 

They ran for hours, without Rowan’s pace flagging once. Fenrys wished he could transition into his wolf, longed for the feel of the earth underneath his paws. But the magic here was too thin, waning in and out. If he transformed, there was a good chance he would get stuck. 

That wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen. The two worst things he could imagine had already happened. His brother, who it turned out hated and resented him, had been slain. He hadn’t been able to stop it. And his queen—no, his friend, his  _ best friend _ —had died as well, only weeks after surviving the greatest ordeal of her life. 

And he’d thought selfishly, when Connall had died, that at least Aelin would be there. That she and Rowan would find a way together to forge the lock, that she wouldn’t die. And as long as he had one person who understood him, and what they’d been through, then he’d be okay. 

He blinked five times, rapidly.  _ This is real, you are awake.  _

There was, of course, no answer. But it grounded him all the same. This was real, and he was awake, and they were going to get her back. 

All of a sudden, Rowan stopped short. They had come to the foot of one of the largest mountain ranges Fenrys had ever seen. It towered before them, scraping the clouds, higher than any he had seen on his many travels. 

“Of course she’d be up there,” Rowan growled, but Fenrys saw a small smile on his lips. 

“It wouldn’t be like Aelin to make this easy for us,” he agreed. 

“I’ll go in my hawk,” Rowan said. 

“Whitethorn. You can’t be serious. The magic here is as thin as the air up there will be.”

“It will takes us days, Fen. Days that we do not have. I cannot save Aelin only to bring her back to a world left in ruin,” Rowan said crossly. 

“Let Dorian and Gavriel and Lorcan, and Manon Blackbeak, deal with Erawan and Maeve. Let Yrene worry about it. We need to focus on Ael—

“She will never forgive me, Fenrys. If...if Erilea falls—and without her wit, her determination, her leadership it  _ will  _ fall—she will have wished we never brought her back in the first place.”

“Rowan, she loves you.”

“She does, but she also loves her home, her friends, and her family. Her world. I cannot bring her back just to tell her that there is nothing left for us. That she will spend the rest of her life on the run, hiding from Maeve and Erawan.”

Rowan said no more, and in a flash, he was soaring above, fast as an arrow, flying straight for the tops of the towering peaks. 

****

Even in his hawk, Rowan could feel the steady pull of Aelin’s soul. It told him to keep going, to climb higher and higher. He did, using whatever magic he could to put the wind beneath his wings, until he was circling above the highest peak. 

_ Here,  _ Aelin said,  _ I am here.  _

He shot down from the sky and landed. The peak was blanketed in snow and knotted pine trees. He pulled at the magic inside of him, and was relieved as it held and allowed him to transform back into fae. 

He breathed in deeply, and closed his eyes. He could feel it, she was here, she was close. He opened his eyes, and there she was, the bits of her soul glimmering like a wil-o-wisp amongst the branches of the tallest pine. 

He used the ember of fire magic he had, and set a flaming crown atop his head. Aelin had always loved to see him in one, to see her powers gracing his head, to see the promise of Terrasen’s future king. 

The pieces of her soul must have felt him there, felt him use their own magic, because they drifted down from the tree and over to his outstretched arms. They looked a bit like flames themselves, glowing and swirling in the air. 

And there was more than one of them. It was as if the pieces of her soul had gathered and tried to put themselves back together. But as they had no vessel, they simply wound themselves into a cluster. 

Rowan cupped the fragments in his palm, and then pressed them to his chest. It was warm, and then blinding pain, and then the visions—no, memories, he realized—began to slam into him. 

*

Aelin was four. She knew this because there were four candles in her cake, and four stars atop the paper crown she wore. 

Aedion sat beside her and her parents stood behind her. The candles were not lit. Even at this age, she knew why they couldn’t be. Knew that she wasn’t allowed near fire at all, because she might lose control and make it do something dangerous. And if her mother wasn’t there to help her, then no one could. 

“Surely, just this once Evalin,” her father said. 

“No. It’s too dangerous.” Her mother’s voice was soft, but held a note of steel in it. 

“But you’re right here. What could happen?”

Aedion reached out and squeezed Aelin’s hand. He knew how much she hated it when her parents spoke about her powers as if she wasn’t even there. 

But the conversation was over, it seemed, and floating water drops appeared above each candle. Aelin turned to her mother and smiled. Her cakes always had water droplet candles. But she didn’t mind it because her mother’s magic was beautiful and calm and some day she would also make things that were beautiful and calm. 

She squeezed her eyes shut and wished...

*

Aelin struggled against the manacles. 

“Fuck Arobyn,” she muttered. 

“You know, if he hears you, he’ll only make us sit here longer,” Sam said.   
“Unless we figure out how to get these damned things off like he wants us to.”

It was only her third year of training to be an assassin, but already she was very good at it. She’d passed the last three tests with flying colors and she’d be damned if Sam figured this one out before she did. She twisted her wrists this way and that way, and began to try again. She didn’t want to fail, but more importantly, she didn’t want to disappoint her master...

*

The iron at her wrists and ankles and on her face chafed. After Cairn was done with her, and after the healers had made her all brand new again, she’d be put back in the iron coffin for hours and she’d nearly go mad from the chaffing. It wasn’t just that the iron snuffed her magic out in the most uncomfortable way—it was like being underwater and being able to breathe somehow, but just barely getting enough air—it was that the damned metal itched. 

There was more than one type of torture. There was the pain—like when Cairn had driven metal spikes into her abdomen. And there were mind games, like when Maeve made her think Rowan was dead, his body turned to ash, burned alive by her own magic, by the fact that she lost control. 

And then there was the waiting, the endless, endless waiting...

*

There was more, bits and pieces, flashes of her life in the glass palace, her friendship with Nehemia, her time spent with Sam and Chaol, and Rowan savoured each one as it flowed through him. 

These were pieces of Aelin that he had never seen. She had told him about them but he’d never truly known what she looked like as a child, or what her parents were like either. And he’d never seen Sam’s face in her mind like this: young, and handsome and kind. It filled his heart with so much joy, joy that she had been loved so thoroughly and that she had loved in return. 

And his heart also broke for her. For how badly she had wanted to please Arobynn, for how much his opinion mattered of her. And for how Cairn had treated her. He regretted, not for the first time, that he hadn’t found a way to make the male suffer longer. 

He felt her inside of him more than he had before. It wasn’t Aelin, not yet, just the impression of her. 

But he held his fist out in front of him, and the flames leapt to life. Taller, stronger now than ever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a wil-o-wisp is a little light that sailors used to see bobbing on the horizon, it was thought to be a soul or something supernatural.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowan and Fenrys meet some of the people who were closest to Aelin and Kaltain deals with an unexpected visitor.

Evalin Ashryver understood all too well why the pieces of her daughter’s soul were dancing in front of her. 

Rhoe and she had come to understand their dear Fireheart’s fate as soon as they had died, as soon as they had reunited with their ancestors, had looked Brannon in the eyes and seen the sorrow there. It would seem that the old King of Adarlan had not been successful in his quest to save her daughter’s life—to give enough of himself up to the Lock that Aelin was left alive. 

Evalin clutched at her white nightgown and struggled with where to go from here. Her daughter’s soul was fragmented beyond repair. She only knew it was Aelin because the pieces were the same color as Aelin’s flame, and danced and flickered in a similar manner. And when she turned away from them, they only fluttered closer. With Hellas gone from the throne, it made sense that this was Aelin, that she had completed her quest, that the gods had gone home and this was how they had repaid her for her monumental sacrifice. 

She couldn’t talk to her daughter, or hold her close, or assure her that it would be okay. That time had long since passed, and in the years since Evalin’s mortal body had been murdered, she had still yet to accept that this was her daughter’s fate. That everyone else would get an Afterlife, but not Aelin. That she would never see her daughter again.

And that there was absolutely nothing she could do to fix it. 

Evalin stumbled back and sank into the mattress of her and Rhoe’s bed. She cried quietly into a blanket, muffling her sobs, trying to spare her daughter from seeing her like this. 

****

Kaltain awoke with a start. Someone was in the palace. She listened more closely to the noise—they were in her chambers. She moved to climb out of bed as quietly as possible and prayed that it wasn’t Arobynn. He could manifest here almost as well as she could and she wasn’t ready to all out fight him. 

Before she could swing her legs over the side and onto the floor, a knife was at her throat. Kaltain willed a soft light into being, thankful for the magic of this world. She might not have her shadow fire any longer, but she wasn’t completely helpless. She couldn’t see the face of who held the knife, but they certainly didn’t feel like Arobynn Hamel. No, the body pressed against hers was softer than any man’s. 

“Did Arobynn send you?” she ground out. 

The stranger laughed, a throaty feminine laugh. “I don’t work with pigs like him.” She forced Kaltain to stand up. 

“That makes two of us then,” Kaltain said. “But it still doesn’t explain why you’re holding a knife to my throat.”

The woman’s other hand grabbed Kaltain by the shoulder and forced her to turn around, so that they were facing, with only inches between them. Kaltain wasn’t sure why she let her. She could have manifested a knife of her own and fought back. But she supposed it didn’t really matter, souls who were injured in the Afterlife simply healed and regenerated. 

She brought her eyes up to the woman’s face. Dark eyes set against glowing brown skin. Cut glass cheekbones. And a mouth painted blood red. Kaltain shivered. 

Her reaction to the other woman’s beauty spurred her to fight back. She had a wicked, long knife in her hand in an instant, and had it pressed, hard, against the woman’s thigh. The dress she wore was thin and silky, and Kaltain knew the knife had likely already drawn blood. 

The woman hissed in pain, and jumped back, releasing Kaltain. But not before she nicked the back of her neck. 

“I can have you out of this palace, on your ass, and back to whatever level you crawled out of in half a thought,” Kaltain said. “Explain yourself. Now.” 

“I know that Arobynn Hamel is trying to break through the ward stones that keep the denizens of hell locked up. And I know you’d like to prevent him from doing that. But I’m hoping that you can make an exception...for me.” The woman cringed as she said that last part. 

Kaltain frowned. “Am I to understand that you want me to keep every other evil soul locked up in hell, but let you out? Why would I do such a thing? Especially for someone like you?”

“Because,” the woman said, smiling a bit now, “I got put there accidentally. And if you let me out, I’ll help you destroy Arobynn, once and for all.” 

****

“It makes total sense that she’d be here, Whitethorn,” Fenrys said, gazing up at the white stone mansion in front of them. Red roses and ivy tangled over the walls, and sunlight dappled the gleaming, silver gates. It was opulent enough for Aelin’s tastes, and looked like somewhere a princess in a fairy tale might live. 

Rowan only grunted in response. Though he’d been in a better mood since they had rescued part of Aelin’s soul two days before, he was still withdrawn and taciturn at best. 

Fenrys sighed, and took the lead. The silver gates weren’t locked, and opened easily. He was still getting used to the layout of the Afterworld, how things functioned. Houses seemed to spring up anywhere amongst the landscape, and here, in level three, they dotted the rolling seaside cliffs and beaches. This was a world of water, with miles and miles of lakes and oceans and rivers stretching in all directions. Some of the houses even seemed to float on top of the water. 

And the residents seemed to come and go as they pleased. Their bodies seemed solid—at least the few that Fenrys had caught glimpses of had. But they could disappear at will, and so most of the time, Fenrys and Rowan had felt utterly alone in the Afterworld. They knew that they were surrounded by souls, but it felt sparsely populated. Or, perhaps it was simply that each level was much larger than they knew—perhaps this world spread out infinitely in all directions. 

Either way, the house before them felt as uninhabited as the rest of the world. Utterly calm and still. As he and Rowan walked up the path towards the doors, they  heard the chirping of birds and the sound of running water. 

“We thought we’d be seeing you, one way or another,” a strong male voice said from behind them. “Though Evalin and I only expected Rowan.”

****

Rowan tried to keep his breathing even as he took in the man in front of him. Rhoe Galathynius looked almost exactly as he had in Aelin’s memory of her birthday. Tall, well built, and classically handsome. He didn’t look all that much like his daughter, with his brown hair and eyes, but they shared the same determined set to their jaw, and he knew that Aelin was a warrior in the same way that her father had been. 

“I’m Fenrys,” Fenrys said after an awkward moment. He stepped forward with his hand outstretched. 

Rowan knew that Fenrys was likely compensating for the fact that he had yet to say a word to the father of his mate. 

“I’d shake your hand, but the dead cannot touch the living, not truly,” Rhoe said. “How did you know my daughter?” He winced almost imperceptibly as he said the words. 

“Aelin was...Aelin was my queen, and I one of her bloodsworn. But more than that, we were friends, bound by shared experience.” 

Rowan knew that those words hardly encompassed all that Fenrys and Aelin had experienced together, but he hoped he could spare Rhoe the details of what Maeve had done to Aelin. 

Rowan stepped forward. “And I am her mate. And her carranam. Her bloodsword. And her husband.” 

Rhoe looked at him with wary eyes. “Let’s head inside,” he said, “I’ll never hear the end of it if I talk to you any longer without introducing you to Evalin.” 

Rowan and Fenrys followed him inside the great house, and into a sitting area that was set up for tea. A petite blonde woman sat facing the window. 

“Evalin,” Rhoe said gently, “there are people here to see us.” 

Evalin Ashryver Galathynius rose from her chair and turned to greet them. Her face went white as she looked at Rowan, and a hand went to her mouth. 

Again, Rowan felt unable to speak. It was strange, meeting Aelin’s parents when they had long been dead. Meeting them when she now was as well. And...in a way, it felt wrong. Aelin herself should be here, able to talk and laugh with them. And they deserved to see  _ her _ , as the woman she had grown into, not him, her useless mate, who had not been able to save her when it had mattered most. 

“You must be Rowan,” Evalin said, advancing towards him. 

Rowan nodded. “I’m...I’m so sorry.” 

Evalin nodded. 

“We’re here, trying to find the pieces of her, trying to put them back together,” he managed. “Our travels led us here, to your house.” 

“That should not even be possible,” Evalin said. 

“Rowan made it possible. As her mate, he is the perfect vessel for her soul, until it is fully restored,” Fenrys said. 

“Why did she not fight this?” Rhoe ground out. “My daughter would have fought.” 

Rowan and Fenrys shared a look. Could they tell them what had happened to Aelin in the months before forging the lock? Could they explain why, when the time had come, she had been too tired to fight any longer? 

“Rhoe,” Evalin said gently. “I should have told you sooner. Our worst fears were realized.”

Could the dead truly look down on the living? Did Evalin already know about Maeve and Cairn and the coffin? Had she seen what had happened to Aelin?

“Maeve.” Rhoe said the word with malice. 

Evalin nodded, and turned towards Rowan. “We looked in on our daughter often. We saw what Arobynn did to her. We saw her in Endovier, and after in Adarlan. And we saw her meet you, Rowan. We saw her find happiness with you.” She paused and took a deep breath. “And I...I saw what Maeve and Cairn did to her. Bits and pieces of it anyway.”

“Why didn’t you say something Evalin?” Rhoe did not look angry, just concerned. 

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell you, couldn’t make myself say the words out loud. I tried to help her, when I could.” Evalin’s voice cracked. 

“When she nearly punched straight through the coffin,” Fenrys breathed. “That was you. That strength—it came from you.”

Rowan felt tears start to trickle down his face. He did not wipe them away. 

“I told her to be brave, one last time. I told her to be strong. I told her not to yield,” Evalin said. 

“It was that moment that allowed us to rescue her,” Rowan said. “I was at a loss as to where to go. Elide Lochan believed that Aelin was in Doranelle, but I wasn’t...I wasn’t thinking straight. Aelin sent out that signal, that shockwave, that war cry—and it lead us right to her.”

“Does it even matter now?” Evalin wondered. 

As if in answer, a few swirling bits of light and flame appeared before her face.

“Fireheart,” Rowan whispered. 

“How can a soul be put back together?” Rhoe asked. “Even if you are the vessel,  _ how _ ? And what of her body?”

“When Aelin forged the locked, I held onto the mating bond. I forced the piece of her soul that made up the bond to stay with me. As for her body, the Healer on High of the Torre Cesme is looking after it.” 

Rowan knew that his voice was hard, that his words sounded cold. But he couldn’t talk about Aelin’s body, as a separate entity from her  _ self _ , without feeling like he was going to vomit. Coldness, and making himself like steel, these were the only ways he would be able to see this through. 

“Aelin’s soul is able to join together only within Rowan’s body,” Fenrys elaborated. 

“I’ve never heard of that happening before,” Rhoe said. 

“Who else has died and had their soul shattered in the process? Only Aelin has been denied her Afterlife.” It was Evalin’s words, now, that were cold and hard. 

“I promise,” Rowan began, meeting Evalin’s eyes, “I promise that I will defy death and bring Aelin back. She will have a full life, and an Afterlife, with you.”

A single tear tracked down Evalin’s cheek. 

“May I?” Rowan asked, gesturing to the pieces of Aelin’s soul. 

“Let us...let us say goodbye,” Rhoe said. “It has been a great comfort having even just a part of her here with us.” 

“Fireheart,” Evalin began, cupping Aelin’s soul in her palms, “know that I love you, always. And that raising you was the greatest joy of our lives.” 

“Know that none of it was your fault,” Rhoe said. “Not us, not Marion.”

Rowan’s heart broke a little more. He knew that Aelin, in her darkest moments, still blamed herself and her magic for the deaths of those closest to her. Rhoe knew his daughter well to guess that she still needed to hear his reassurance. 

“We will be waiting here for you,” Evalin said. 

Cupping the fragments of Aelin’s soul between her palms, Evalin brought them over to Rowan. He took them from her gently, the pieces dancing through his fingers like living flames. Pressing them to his chest as he had before, he braced himself for the memories to come. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into Aelin's life as a child in Orynth.

Aelin stroked the pages of the book reverently. It was made of something her father called vellum, and it told the story of a prince and princess. 

She wasn’t supposed to be touching it. That’s why she was tucked away on a windowsill in one of the palace turrets. Heavy drapes obscured her from view, making sure no one would find her for hours, and the pages were lit by sunlight streaming through the windows. 

The book was almost too difficult for her to read, but she was making do. Aedion didn’t understand why she liked reading so much and why she hated her powers so much because of it. He was good at everything, and had plenty of other people to play with if he wanted. Though, he liked playing with her best of all. 

Last time she’d picked up a book, she’d gotten too excited and it had burst into flames, and her mother had had to put it out. And just yesterday she’d lit her favorite gown on fire. But she’d started to realize that the days after her magic activated or got out of her control were the days it was the calmest. She wouldn’t be lighting anything on fire today. She could barely feel her magic. And besides, this was a happy, nice story. Nothing in it to scare her. 

She whispered the words out loud, sounding the longer ones out:

“The prince stood before the great palace and stared in awe. Red roses and ivy curled up the sides, covering almost every inch of the white stone. The walls were higher than any he had seen in his travels, and the great silver gates were far more ornate than those at his own home. He frowned. He knew that he had to marry the princess because of the great wealth she stood to inherit, but he worried she would laugh at his dusty brown leather boots, and his fraying silks…”

Aelin paused her reading and sighed. She really hoped that she wouldn’t end up like the prince and princess, betrothed for money and power. Her parents loved one another dearly, but theirs had also been a politically advantageous match. What if she fell in love not with a prince, like she was supposed to, but with a regular man? Would she be allowed to marry him?

She shook her head at the thought. It didn’t matter anyway—she had no friends aside from Aedion to speak of, let alone anyone who would ever want to marry her. Thinking of Aedion made her wrinkle her nose. 

Last night, after dinner, she and Aedion had heard Orlon and Evalin discussing the rumor that Aedion and Aelin were betrothed. 

“It’s ridiculous,” her mother had said. “They are not betrothed, they are just close friends.”

“Not yet, Evalin. But would it not be a good match?” Orlon had said. His voice hadn’t sounded too serious but it had scared Aedion and Aelin both. 

“Perhaps. But I cannot ask Aelin to marry her only friend.”

After that, the two had scampered away to Aelin’s room. They sat together in the corner, on top of a pile of pillows. 

“I don’t want to marry you,” Aelin said, looking down at the stuffed rabbit in her arms. 

“I don’t want to marry you either,” Aedion agreed. “It would be weird. I’ve known you since you were a baby.”

“And I’ve known  _ you  _ since I  _ was _ a baby,” Aelin said. 

“They can’t make us.” 

“Orlon could.” Aelin loved her Uncle, but he was the King. 

“He won’t.” 

But Aedion hadn’t sounded so sure at the time. And now Aelin wasn’t so sure either, especially after the story she’d just started. 

She set down the book, proud of herself for not harming it. She didn’t want any more stories about marriage or princes or castles. She let out a scream of frustration, happy that no one was around to hear it. Tears started to roll down her cheeks, and she scrubbed at them with her fists. 

Something rustled the curtain and she stilled, not even breathing. She wouldn’t be in trouble exactly, if she were found, but she didn’t want anyone to see her crying. Or that she had been reading a book. 

To her dismay, the curtains were swiftly drawn open to reveal her uncle Orlon, dressed in green and gold, a thin circlet atop his head. 

“So this is where you’ve been hiding all day,” he said, giving her a kind smile. 

She nodded, and refused to look at him. She couldn’t let him see her cry. He’d ask questions or tell her parents and then they would ask questions. Though, she supposed she wouldn’t mind if her mother saw her cry. She always managed to make Aelin feel better. 

Orlon took a seat beside her on the window seat, so that he was next to her propped up feet. He placed the book in his lap, and reached over and gently tilted her chin up. 

“Why are you upset, Aelin dearest?” He gave her a small smile. 

“I was reading a story,” she mumbled. 

“Ah, but it looks like the book survived this time,” he said. “You kept your magic under control, and for that I am very proud.”

“I did keep it under control,” she said, happy to hear his praise. 

“Did something in the story make you said?” he pressed. 

Aelin considered lying. She thought better of it though—her uncle was gentle and kind hearted, but he did not like being lied to, and she wasn’t very good at it. She could lie to Aedion or Elide easily, but not to adults. 

“Yes,” she said, looking down, “I was...I was reading about a prince who travels to a foreign kingdom to marry someone for an alliance.” She braved a glance at her uncle. His face was open and honest, so she plunged ahead. “And I...I don’t want to marry Aedion for an alliance or because it’s a good match, even if he’s my friend. I don’t like him that way. And I don’t want to have to marry some prince I’ve never met before either. I don’t want to marry anyone at all!” 

Orlon sighed. “I guess this means you heard the conversation I had with your mother?” 

She nodded, again unable to meet his gaze. 

“Aelin, look at me.” 

His voice was firm, that of a king, and she made herself look at him. 

“You know your uncle Darrow, right? And you know that he is my husband?”

“Yes.” 

“My parents did not want me to marry him. Not because he was a man, but because together, we could not produce any heirs. But I refused to marry anyone else, and so when my father died and I became king, I named Rhoe as my heir.” 

“And you married uncle Darrow.”

“Yes. I don’t know if my father would have approved of the match eventually, but I did what I felt was best, for myself and for Terrasen. A king who resents his wife and his position is not a very good king at all. Weylan makes me happy, and this happiness allows me to be the type of ruler Terrasen needs. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“I only mentioned a match between you and Aedion because I thought you might come to feel that way about him.”

“I won’t,” she said surely. 

Orlon laughed a bit and leaned over to place a kiss on her forehead. “You will meet someone who loves you dearly, and who you loves in return, Aelin. Of that I am sure.” 

****

Later that night, after Aelin had eaten dinner with Aedion and Elide and Marion, she crept into her parents’ room. They hadn’t eaten with her, as they usually did, and instead had been involved in hushed talks with her uncles in the great map room. Aedion said that that was where they planned things like trade routes and even war. 

Aelin and Aedion hadn’t caught a word of what they had said as they walked by the room on their way upstairs, but her parents’ faces had been tense. She almost never saw her father frown that deeply, or her mother look so stern. 

Now, she stood in the doorway to their chambers, and they still looked sad and worried. They hadn’t noticed she was there yet, and her father had his arms resting heavily on the windowsill, while her mother was brushing out her long hair. 

“Perhaps we could go to Wendlyn, take refuge with your family there,” her father said.

“No.” Aelin’s mother said the word firmly, putting steel behind it. 

“Adarlan grows stronger every day. We need to protect ourselves, and more importantly, we need to protect Aelin.”

“Protect her how? By taking her across the ocean towards the one person who wants her power the most? Maeve will not hesitate to take her from us if we bring her to Wendlyn. Doranelle is on its doorstep, Rhoe. She is safer here.”

“She is safe nowhere! Perhaps we should let her go to the Torre Cesme afterall.” 

Just then, Rhoe turned from where he stood at the window and caught sight of Aelin. She clutched the stuffed rabbit in her arms harder, worried her father might be cross with her. 

Instead, he smiled gently and said, “How long have you been standing there?”

“Just a few minutes,” she said, and scampered into the room. She took a seat on the enormous bed and dug her feet into the furs. 

Her mother came to sit next to her, and wrapped her in a hug. “You will be safe Aelin, I promise. We will always protect you.”

“Why is my Aunt Maeve so...mean?” Aelin wondered. 

“Your Aunt, if we can even call her that...she likes to collect people who have strong powers. And you my Fireheart, have the strongest power of all.” 

Aelin wrinkled her nose. She didn’t want to have the strongest power, not if it meant she wouldn’t be safe or couldn’t read books whenever she wanted. 

“Could I really go to the Torre Cesme? And learn with the healers?” She gave her father her best doe eyes as she said this. 

“Not this year,” her father said. 

“But I’m already seven and a half! I’m getting old and I need to start learning now if I ever want to be any good.”

“We’ll talk more of it tomorrow,” her mother said. “If you’re so old, then you won’t want to sleep in here with us tonight will you?”

“I’m not too old! I’m young. I’m the youngest,” Aelin said emphatically. “Please let me stay.”

Her parents obliged her, and she slept more soundly than she ever did alone. 

****

Rowan could not keep himself from smiling. The memories had been longer this time, and unfragmented. Seeing so much of Aelin as a child—it was not something he had ever thought to experience. 

“What was it?” Evalin Ashryver’s voice was frantic, and she tugged on her sleeve. 

“It was Aelin, as a child. She was reading in a window seat,” Rowan said. 

Evalin’s face broke out into a smile. “She always used to sneak away from us and hide in some unknown corner of the palace.”

Rowan told Aelin’s parents and Fenrys the whole of what he had seen, happy that he could at least give them this part of her. When he was finished, tears dotted even Rhoe’s cheeks. 

“I was so upset that she heard that conversation. So worried that she didn’t believe my promise. It broke my heart that all she wanted was to learn and read and heal, and we couldn’t send her to the Torre Cesme. She was supposed to be queen and I...I was always too afraid to let her out of my sight,” Evalin said. 

Rowan struggled to find the words to articulate himself. “The memories...they are not simply scenes playing out before me. I am literally inside her head, feeling what she felt. And she...she felt nothing but love for you.” 

Evalin began to sob. 

“And when...when Maeve had her...she called out for the two of you in her sleep,” Fenrys said. “She does not believe you failed her, but instead believes that she failed you.”

“She and her uncle were so alike,” Rhoe said shaking his head. 

“What do you mean?” Fenrys asked.

“Orlon was a magnificent king,” Rhoe said quietly. “But he blames himself, I think, for what happened to Terrasen and to us. He was a king who saw his country and family fall to invasion. He always saw Terrasen as a force of good within Erilea, keeping Adarlan and others at bay, and when it came down to it, he feels as if he failed not only Terrasen but all of Erilea.”

Rowan sucked in a sharp breath. It would seem that Aelin had inherited her guilt ridden conscious from her uncle. For he had seen Aelin blame herself for Terrasen’s destruction, positive that Adarlan wouldn’t have attacked were in not for her magic. 

“Why is he not here with you?” Fenrys asked. 

“He wanders,” Rhoe explained. “He’s...waiting for Weylan, I suppose. 

“And Weylan Darrow is similarly waiting to be with him, of that I am sure. But Orlon didn’t fail. And Aelin hasn’t either,” Rowan said. 

“I’m sure our travels will bring us to him,” Fenrys said. “And when they do...we will tell him of everything his niece accomplished. And of how her bravery saved the world.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaltain talks to a mysterious stranger who wants her help, and Rowan and Fenrys meet another member of Aelin's beloved dead.

Kaltain concentrated on pouring the tea carefully. She hadn’t done something like this in a long, long time. Since she’d lived in Rifthold and had courted the favor of Georgina Havilliard. Which hadn’t been that long ago but it felt like she’d lived ten lifetimes since then. 

She set the ornate ceramic teapot down on the table and dropped a lump of sugar into her cup. Stirring it, she looked up to face the woman in front of her.

“Remind me of your name again?” she said. 

The woman rolled her eyes. “It’s Emme.”

Kaltain simply smiled. After Emme had broken into her rooms last night, and offered her help in taking down Arobynn Hamel, Kaltain had quickly decided that she wouldn’t hea the woman’s proposal in the dead of night, when she was in nothing but her dressing gown. No, she wanted to be the one in charge, the one controlling the situation. And so she’d woken up early, had the palace prepare the spread before them, and had been sure to put on her most ravishing gown. It was a red so deep in color that it appeared black in certain light. Still, she felt homely next to Emme. 

“Why, exactly, should I listen to what you have to say? Why should I listen to what any of the denizens of the final layer have to say?” Kaltain asked. 

“Because like I said, I got put there—

“Yes, by accident, I know. But the magic of this place doesn’t make mistakes.”

“Hellas believed I was in the right place.” 

Kaltain simply snorted. That all but proved her point. 

Emme rolled her eyes again. “You’re supposed to be the new queen here but you barely even understand how it all works.”

“Care to enlighten me?” 

Kaltain tried to keep her focus on Emme’s eyes as she spoke, and not on her red lips as they moved. 

“The magic was linked to Hellas’s sense of goodness and evil. If he believed an act condemned one to a life in hell, then that was that.”

“Go on,” Kaltain said, her mind whirring at the possibilities contained in what Emme had said. 

“You know that only souls who reside in hell are condemned for their actions. Everyone else gets to experience the Afterworld as they choose, with no judgment. But the most important power that the ruler of this realm has is the power to sort out the evil from the good. Or the evil from the not-evil.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Is anyone truly good?” Emme shot back. 

Kaltain thought of how she’s been treated in Rifthold, by the Prince, by Celaena, and even by Nehemia. They were all good people, yet they were capable of unkindness. And yet— _ a warm cloak in a cold dungeon.  _

“Yes,” Kaltain murmured, “Some people truly are.”

Emme merely shrugged, and threw one leg over the other. “Anyway, Hellas thought I was bound to hell. But I don’t think you’ll share that opinion.”

“Tell me, Emme,” Kaltain said, delicately slicing a scone, “do I seem like a sentimental woman?”

“No.”

Emme reached out and stilled Kaltain’s hand, preventing her from spreading jam on the scone. Kaltain shivered at her touch. How long had it been since someone had touched her and she’d actually welcomed it? 

“But I do know,” Emme continued, “that you are a woman with great anger in her, who says Arobynn Hamel’s name like a curse, as if you hate men like him and all they stand for.”

Kaltain struggled to keep her breaths even. Emme had gleaned that much from their short interaction? There was no one in hell who knew Kaltain’s story—not even Arobynn knew all of it. 

“I do hate him,” she said, “and all those like him. There was a time when I wanted to watch the world burn just for spite, because of men like him.”

“I wish you hadn’t held yourself back,” Emme said, her eyes gleaming. 

“I didn’t.” Kaltain knew that her smile was more like a snarl, like the kind she’d seen on the faces of Celaena Sardothien and Manon Blackbeak. 

“When I was alive...I didn’t have the power to set anything on fire. Not even a match,” Emme started. 

Kaltain inclined her head, letting Emme know that she would hear her story. 

“I was a servant in the house of a successful merchant, in Rifthold actually. I was, if you can imagine, a quiet, shy girl. My mother and father were servants there as well, and for a while everything was alright. It was not a brilliant, or particularly fun life, but it was mine. I cooked and cleaned all week, and with my one day off I’d spend time with my parents, or go to the markets and bars with the other servants. But...the merchant I worked for had a son. A son who liked me quite a bit, even though I was a servant, and poor, and not as pretty as any of the ladies in Rifthold.” 

“I very much doubt that,” Kaltain said. 

Emme did not smile at the roundabout compliment. 

Kaltain held her breath. She could fill in the details, she was sure, and that’s what scared her. She had also been just a girl, who had been too well liked by the wrong man. 

“He tried to rape me. We fought. I grabbed a poker from the fire and stabbed him with it. Once in the stomach, once in the throat. And then just to be sure, while he was choking on his own blood, I smashed him over the head with the iron doorstop and shoved his body into the fire.”

“Good,” Kaltain said. “I would have done the same.”

Emme smiled wickedly. “I knew you’d understand.” 

Rowan grabbed Fenrys arm and turned the stone over four times in his hand. The world of water melted around them and reformed. 

It was a city. A bustling, loud, dirty city, not unlike Rifthold. The streets were cobbled and taverns and shops lined the one they had appeared on. From windows and doorways, Rowan could hear chatter and music and laughter. 

“So this is where everyone is,” Fenrys said. “The other levels feel so empty because most spirits prefer this world.”

“Perhaps. Or this level is simply smaller, more crowded.”

“I hope it’s smaller. It will make our job much easier.”

Rowan bit back the words that threatened to spill out of his mouth. The hunt for his wife’s soul wasn’t a job, or a quest, or a mission. He knew that Fenrys didn’t mean anything by it but still, he was struck by that fact that though Aelin’s loss was felt by many—he was thankful that he had not had to see Lysandra’s face when she had found out—he was perhaps the only one who felt tangibly different. It was not just that his heart ached for his wife, his mate, his carranam, it was that he felt physically weaker. Unable to move through the world as he always had: calm, cold, brutal Rowan Whitethorn. Now he felt clumsy, maudlin, and lesser. As if the person he had been just a few days ago, when Aelin had still been alive, no longer existed. That person, that proud, strong, capable person—he was only able to be him with Aelin by his side. 

But perhaps Fenrys felt the same. Perhaps they all felt the loss of Aelin—of her warmth and strength and courage—physically, like the way cold seeps into a room as soon as a fire is put out. And Fen was likely as fucked up as he was at the moment. Connall’s death had changed Fenrys, made him less aware, less present. He noticed the change when he and Fenrys would set up camp on the rare occasion that they took time to sleep. Fenrys had nothing to say, and they would eat across a fire in silence. And when they slept, Fenrys mumbled in his dreams. 

“Let’s go,” Rowan said, stepping onto the cobbled street and off of the teeming sidewalk. 

“Should we check the shops first or the taverns? Maybe even the brothels?” 

“It would be just like Aelin to make friends with courtesans,” Rowan said. But he had a pretty good idea of where Aelin would be if she were in this level. And it wouldn’t be a specific place, exactly, but more likely a specific person. 

****

Being in the city lightened Fenrys mood. It wasn’t that he felt the loss of his twin, the ache in that place inside him where Connall had lived, any less acutely, but it was just that this world was so distracting. 

For he had been to many cities across the world, often with Whitethorn at his side, but he had never been to one as strange as this. Though it looked like Rifthold, they soon discovered that nothing was as it seemed. 

As they walked, the streets shifted from cobbled to studded with gemstones to smooth marble before their eyes. Turns that seemed like dead ends became connecting streets, and the spirits of the dead appeared and disappeared at will around them. The taverns and shops they looked into were either full of people, or completely empty. Food arrived in steaming bowls and was consumed in seconds, and music played but seemed to come from nowhere in particular. 

The dead sometimes passed right through them, for as they made their ways through the crowded streets it was impossible not to bump into anyone. Most of the spirits didn’t notice, but some looked shocked at their presence, or even embarrassed. 

Finally, Rowan stopped before a bar that had raucous piano music coming from it. 

“She’s in here,” he said, and Fenrys thought he saw a wisp of a smile on his face. 

Aelin had loved music, especially the piano. Fenrys was saddened that he had never heard her play—that the months of their friendship had mostly been spent in pain, with only one another for support. 

The piano was being played by no one visible, though Fenrys was coming to understand that the spirits in the Afterworld could do much with magic that the living could not. Most of the tables in the bar were full of people drinking and playing cards. Fenrys searched each one for a face he might recognize, for someone who might have drawn Aelin here. And he looked in every corner for wisps of golden flame.

Rowan was utterly still beside him, his gaze focused on the upper level, where spirits were dancing and drinking and laughing. Fenrys followed his eyes and saw a pair of men, both tall and well muscled, though young. Too young to be here. 

“Who are they?” 

“One of them is Sam Cortland, of that I’m sure,” Rowan said. 

Fenrys was not entirely sure who Sam was, for Aelin spoke of him rarely. 

“Had Aelin...had she been normal, without magic, an assassin rather than a queen, I   suspect that Sam would have been her mate,” Rowan said. “He was important to her. The first person she allowed herself to care about after losing her family. And he...he was taken from her as well.” 

Rowan moved forward, and Fenrys trailed behind him, surprised by his friend’s control. Meeting someone your mate had been with...it was not easy. Or so Fenrys had heard. But Rowan and Aelin had never been particularly jealous or possessive. Though, perhaps they had simply not had the time to develop those feelings. Aelin, at least, had known almost as soon as they had mated that she wouldn’t have much time with Rowan. 

They climbed up the velvet lined stairs and pushed their way through the crowd. Sam and whoever he was with didn’t notice them at first, and the two men were engaged in deep conversation.

“That damned bastard. Why can’t he just stay where he belongs,” Sam said. 

“Because he’s never been happy being denied anything,” the other said. 

“No. He couldn’t stand that Celaena liked me more than she liked him, nor would he allow Lysandra any other clients.” 

Sam’s voice was hard, and Fenrys knew that they were talking about Arobynn Hamel. Whatever Hamel was planning in hell was thankfully not their problem. Yet. Fenrys barely allowed himself to consider what he or Rowan would do should they meet Aelin’s former master in the Afterlife. 

“Sam,” Rowan said, his voice rough, but steady. 

The two men turned, and there, floating near Sam’s chest, were the pieces of Aelin’s soul that had pulled them here. Flickering like embers, deep red and blue, dancing around Sam’s body. She seemed happy and content. Joyful. 

“Hello,” Sam said, “Have we met?”

Sam had not, Fenrys guessed, been looking in on Aelin, and thus Rowan, all that much this last year. Perhaps it had hurt too much. Perhaps he’d seen her in the coffin, in Maeve’s hands, and been horrified. And confused. Because there was no telling whether or not Sam knew who Celaena Sardothien really was. 

“I’m Aelin’s—Celaena’s—husband,” Rowan responded. 

Sam looked shocked, as did the other man. Not just shocked. Confused, as if they had no idea why Rowan was here. And no idea that Celaena Sardothien was dead.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowan and Fenrys talk with Sam Cortland, and Rowan sees a troubling memory from Aelin's recent past.

“Who is Aelin?” the other man demanded, turning towards Sam, who looked rather guilty. 

Rowan cringed. So Sam had not...shared Celaena’s identity with anyone else.

“Wesley,” Sam started, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “Celaena was...she was not who we thought. And you must know that she didn’t tell me in life. I discovered it half a year ago only, after checking up on her, and seeing her in Rifthold. She was finally making friends with Lysandra.” 

This made both men chuckle. Sam continued on, saying that he’d seen Celaena with Aedion Ashryver and the pieces had clicked. 

“What? What am I not getting?” Wesley asked.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Fenrys muttered. “She’s the Queen of Terrasen. The last heir to a great house, and all that.”

Rowan smiled. Fen hadn’t cracked many jokes lately. 

“Oh,” Wesley simply said. “That makes sense. No assassin would be as naturally entitled as she is.”

Rowan shot him a glare, which made the man blanch. Aelin had suffered enough, she could be entitled to whatever she damn well pleased. 

“Was,” Fenrys murmured. “She’s dead.”

Rowan silently thanked Fenrys—he could still not bear to say the words, to admit that  Aelin was dead. Especially when it didn’t feel like it, not when he could feel her inside of him.

Sam’s face fell. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t already know,” Rowan said. 

“I...I stopped looking in on her a while ago. At least regularly.”

Fenrys snorted.

“Sam couldn’t spend the rest of his Afterlife pining for someone who was still alive,” Wesley said defensively. 

“It was too difficult, after a while, to see her alive, and to know that it would be ages before I’d see her again. And then—

“You found out who she was, that she was fae, and that it would likely be thousands of years before she came here.”

Sam nodded. “And I saw you, with her. I knew that she had found happiness, that she had someone who would look out for her, who would care about her. When we heard that Arobynn died, I knew that I needed to stop obsessing over her—I have to build a new life here, and I thought she was going to be...fine.” He seemed to choke on the last word as he said it. 

“I’m sorry,” Rowan said. He couldn’t meet Sam’s eyes. Instead he looked down, at the black lines on the inside of his wrist, one for each day Aelin had been gone. There was a week’s worth already.

“If she’s dead, how come—how come she’s not  _ here _ ?” 

“She is,” Fenrys said, his voice softer now. “But Aelin...she sacrificed herself to save the world. Her soul is shattered. We’re piecing it back together.” He gestured at the wisps of flame that danced around Sam’s hands. 

“How is that even possible?” Wesley asked. 

“We’re mates,” Rowan responded, now forcing himself to look Wesley, and then Sam, in the eyes. “A part of her soul dwells within that bond. And I intend to find the rest of it, to put her back together, and bring her back.”

Neither man said a word against it, the insanity of it all. People didn’t come back from the dead. But Aelin Galathynius had never been normal, and Rowan Whitethorn always ensured he protected those close to him. If anyone could do this, it was them. 

“You should be flattered that part of her soul naturally drifted here, to you. It means that she cared for you, deeply—that you were a part of her.” Fenrys said the words solemnly, as if he knew how much Sam needed to hear them. 

“If I talk at her, will she hear me? Will she remember?”

“I have no idea,” Rowan answered honestly. “But you may as well try.”

Rowan, Fenrys, and Wesley gave Sam a moment alone, and watched as he cupped the bits of flame and light between his palms and whispered to them. After a moment, he turned and passed them to Rowan. 

As he had twice before, Rowan pressed the bits of soul against his chest and felt them meld—in a bright twist of pain—with the larger, growing part of Aelin inside of him. 

****

The fae male was shockingly handsome. He stood out among the others who had arrived from Doranelle that morning, marked by silver hair that was bright against his brown skin. 

Aelin smoothed her skirts and hoped that she looked properly regal. She peaked out again from behind the pillar she stood near. Around her, the ball was in full swing, but no one had yet to notice that Terrasen’s princess was missing. The silver haired prince—Rowan, she had heard him called—disappeared from her line of sight. She sighed, and adjusted the delicate tiara on her brow.

Just as she stepped out from her hiding place, Prince Rowan appeared before her, sweeping into a graceful bow. She let out a surprised gasp. 

“You didn’t think I couldn’t see you sneaking glances at me from behind that pillar did you?” he said, smiling warmly at her. 

“Arrogant pig. As if I would sneak glances at _ you _ ,” she said. “Or at any male, for that matter,” she added. 

“Then what were you looking at, your Highness?” he said, taking a step closer to her. 

“The chocolate fountain. I was, uh, checking to see if they had my favorite fruits. And enough chocolate.”

“Because the royal kitchen would for some reason forget to include the princess’s favorite foods. And somehow not put enough chocolate in the chocolate fountain.”

“Exactly. I  _ can  _ eat an ungodly amount of chocolate you know,” she said, now moving closer to him. Something about his eyes, the way they flashed green in the candlelight, pulled her towards him. 

He wrinkled his nose. “I’ve never cared for chocolate.”

“You don’t like chocolate? What kind of heathen are you?” Suddenly, Prince Rowan was less attractive. She could never be happy with someone who didn’t like chocolate.

“It’s alright, I suppose. But I’m a warrior. We eat food for sustenance, not for taste.”

She rolled her eyes at that, and grabbed him by the arm. She tugged him through the crowd, not caring who saw. 

“We’re rectifying that right this minute,” she said. “Here,” she said, pointing at the table she’d brought him too. It was laden with chocolate cakes and fruit tarts of all kinds. “Eat.”

“Not hungry. I had more than enough at dinner.” He seemed surly now, almost cold, as if he thought her antics childish. Well, maybe they were and maybe she was, but chocolate was like magic. 

“What if I feed it to you? Would you eat it then?” She plucked a chocolate hazelnut tart off the table, and took a delicate bite. Then she offered it to him. 

His eyes darted around, as if looking for anyone who might see them. 

“Don’t worry,” she said, “your comrades are all dancing and my parents won’t mind if they see me flirting with  _ you _ .” 

Still, he hesitated. “Aelin—

Ignoring the way her name from his lips twisted something inside of her, she shoved the tart into his mouth. Surprise, and then delight crossed his face as he began to chew. 

Rowan closed his eyes, and then tipped his head back as he swallowed. Aelin blushed at the sight of his neck so exposed. 

“You’re right. That was delicious.” 

His eyes opened and when she met them, this time she knew. She knew. 

Rowan Whitethorn was her—

No.  _ No. _ This was all wrong. She had not grown to be so old in Orynth and her parents had not lived so long and she had not met Rowan like that. She had never known him when they were both untouched by trauma and grief, she had never fed him tarts with such ease, without the weight of her future pressing against her. She had met him at Mistward, after Nehemiah had died.

Nehemiah. 

Her eyes snapped open at the thought of her friend, and through the slits of the iron mask she saw Maeve’s face looming above hers. 

****

Celaena sat down at the piano bench. She was still dirty and bloody from her last mission, but she’d wiped her hands off and they were clean enough to play. Besides, no one else used this piano aside from her. Arobynn had bought her for her particular use, afterall. 

She stretched her fingers and began picking out a tune she’d heard at the Royal Theatre. She didn’t have the sheet music yet, but her ear was good enough to figure some of it out on its own. 

She fiddled with it for a while, and then transitioned to a piece she knew by heart, becoming so lost in the music that she didn’t notice the door open. She only paused when she felt someone sit beside her. 

“Sam,” she said, turning towards him. “Can’t you see I don’t want to be interrupted?” Her words were harsh, but she could hear how tired her voice was. How strained. Her mission, while successful, had exhausted her, and on top of that, she’d dreamed of her parents last night and dreaded going to sleep because of it. 

“You dripped blood into the room and through the hall. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Her chest squeezed. “I’m alright. Just a small cut on my thigh.” 

“Let me bind it,” he said gently. He pulled her hands from the keys and helped her stand. 

She was too tired to fight him, too tired to push him away as she usually did…

****

The memories faded and Rowan found himself back in the present, with Sam and Fenrys and Wesley once more. His whole body ached with sadness or exhaustion, or both.

“Thank you,” he found himself saying to Sam. “Thank you for looking after her in that house where she had no one else.” 

Sam simply nodded. 

Rowan didn’t let himself think about the other memory he had seen or what it meant. Once he got Aelin back, then, together, they would work on killing Maeve. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaltain and Emme visit hell, and Rowan and Fenrys meet an unexpected person in the Afterworld.

“Tell me more about the ward stones. Could Arobynn ever become strong enough to break through?” Kaltain asked. 

“Possibly. It depends on how closely the magic of this world is now linked to you and you alone,” Emme said, shooting her an inscrutable look.

Kaltain nodded. It all came down to whether or not she was the true queen of hell, Hellas’s true heir. If she was, if the magic of this place had decided that she was its master, then only by her own hand could the ward stones break. But if Arobynn held even the slightest sway here then he might succeed. 

She and Emme were standing before one of the 16 portals that each led to a different level of the Afterworld. Residents of the Afterworld could travel at will to the other layers, but to come here, to the seat of the god of death, they had to use the portals. 

Together they approached the last of the portals, marked on all sides by wyrd marks carved into stone, and swirling black and grey in its center. 

On an impulse she grasped Emme’s hand as they were about to step into the portal. She felt Emme squeeze her hand ever so slightly, and Kaltain bit back a smile. 

The portal worked instantly. One step and they were on the other side. Kaltain had only been to this layer once before, when she first arrived, and she had never been back. She’d wondered why she hadn’t been consigned to this layer, wondered why her soul had been deemed worthy despite all her sins. 

She figured that the number of Valg she’d destroyed that day in Morath must have given her the credit she needed. And she was glad for it because hell was bleak. Smaller than the other layers, it consisted of a single black chasm that went further than the eye could see, in which the the people evil enough to reside here all dwelled together, in what looked like one squirming, writhing mass. Surrounding the chasm in a circle were the ward stones, tall and carved from black stone, 15 in total, one for each of the other layers.

“Do they deserve it?” Kaltain wondered, looking at the souls below. How many of them were like Emme? Placed there unfairly? Provoked into doing violence in their lives only to be punished for it in death? Had she not rebelled against Erawan would she be one of them?

“Most of them do,” Emme said. “Most of them are brutal murderers of the worst kind. Most of them had no reason for doing what they did. Why subject the denizens of the other layers to their wickedness?”

“Who am I to judge them? Who am I to determine what passes for good or bad?”

“You only need separate out the regularly terrible from the truly wicked,” Emme said. She moved to face Kaltain, blocking them both from seeing the chasm. “Kaltain. You have more compassion than Hellas did. You are good, but not soft. You’ll be a good queen—I would not support you otherwise.” Emme placed one hand on Kaltain’s bare shoulder and squeezed, as if to emphasize her point. Kaltain was disarmed, momentarily, by the conviction that shown in the other woman’s dark eyes. Had anyone ever believed in her like that before? 

She started to reply but was cut off by another’s voice. 

“This is a tender moment, and I hate to break it up, but I’ll be needing Emme back now.”

“Fuck,” Emme muttered.

Kaltain turned, and saw Arobynn Hamel leaning against one of the ward stones, an arrogant, sly smile pasted on his face. 

***

Rowan had not imagined that they would find Aelin here, in this layer of the Afterworld that was all lazy, winding rivers and gently sloping peaks. It was beautiful, yes, in the way that a bouquet of fresh flowers was: gentle, easy on the eyes, unchallenging.

His Fireheart loved beauty, but even when she dressed in her finest silks she still maintained her edge. Like the dragon gown that she’d worn to dinner with Arobynn Hamel. Gorgeous and alluring, crafted to show off her every curve. But also fierce—it had left no question as to whether or not it’s wearer could fend for herself. 

But there was no denying the gentle pull he felt in his chest, telling him that here was the place. He and Fenrys had traversed two more layers since they had left Sam Cortland and Wesley, and Rowan had inked three more lines on his wrist. 

They were running short on time. And they both knew it. Dorian would have already opened the portal for them once, and he would be opening another one again soon, when the second week had passed. The front lines of the war—Aedion and Lysandra and the Witches and ruks—they needed Aelin’s help, her leadership. 

“Who do you think we’ll find here?” Fenrys asked. The two men stood together on the top of a lushly green hill and stared off into the distance. Though not very high, it provided a view of the valley before them and the forrest—nothing at all like the tangle of the Oakwald—beyond. 

“I have a guess.” Rowan sighed. “How much was Aelin able to tell you of her past?”

Fenrys was quiet for several moments. 

“Not much,” he finally said. “We were barely able to speak. We communicated mostly in blinks and what I know of her past came from the vitriol Maeve hurled at her about it.”

“Did she ever mention Lady Marion?” Rowan’s heart clenched as he said her name, for Aelin, but also for Elide and the mother she’d lost. 

“Maeve did, once. I could only guess that she was another person Aelin had lost.”

“Yes,” Rowan said, “But Lady Marion was the person who saved Aelin’s life. Who gave her own life so that Aelin could escape.”

“Elide’s mother. Their meeting in Eyllwe makes far more sense now.” 

Rowan simply nodded. He did not have words to describe how he’d felt watching Aelin and Elide Lochan meet for the first time after ten long years. He knew how guilty Aelin felt over it, how she blamed herself for the fact that Elide no longer had a mother. 

“I’m going in my hawk,” Rowan said. 

“No.” Fenrys’s voice was firm. 

“We do not have time to waste.”

“And the magic here is thin. We could hardly access it at all in the last layer.”

“I’ll take my chances. If I get stuck in my hawk, I’ll fly back here and shift.”

“And if you waste the time finding Marion only to be unable to communicate with her?” 

Rowan was silent. The other male had a point. It was a problem he’d faced on missions many times before. Not the absence of magic, no, but the question of speed over accuracy. 

It was a problem he’d faced barely a month ago, when he had chosen not to go to Doranelle against Elide Lochan’s advice, and Aelin had ended up being there all along. He’d chosen the more sure route over taking a risk, and Aelin had remained in Maeve’s clutches for nearly a week more because of it. 

“Elide wanted to go to Doranelle,” he told Fenrys, knowing the other male would understand. “She thought that you and Aelin were there from the beginning and I foolishly chose not to listen to her because it seemed too much of a risk. I will not make that mistake again.”

Fenrys nodded. “If you go as your hawk, I will follow on the ground in my wolf. We do this together, or not at all.” 

Rowan said nothing, but pulled at the shift inside of himself. He had no gods left to thank for the magic being strong here, but he felt Fenrys shift below him, and that was enough. 

****

Rowan felt the pull of Aelin’s soul growing quietly stronger as they traveled east (or what he had come to think of as east within this layer). He flew low to the ground, only a few feet above Fenrys, who was a white streak across the landscape. 

The land reminded him of a tamer version of Terrasen. Lush and green, but with smaller mountains and less frigid winds and gentler forests. The type of place one might paint in a watercolor, or tell a child about in a story. 

They passed through a small wooded grove dotted with cottages when Rowan felt the tug. He signalled with his magic for Fenrys to stop, and fumbled for the shift inside of himself. Thankfully the magic remained—though it was thin—and he and Fenrys were back in their fae forms within moments. 

“She’s this way,” he said, jerking his chin in the direction of of a grey cottage with blue shutters and a white fence. Purple and white flowers trailed along the fence and ivy covered the walls. The small garden was full to the brim with flowers of all varieties. 

Rowan took a deep breath and knocked on the door. 

“One moment,” a musical voice called from inside. 

It was a voice he recognized, a voice that had haunted his dreams over and over again, year after year. 

“No,” he whispered. It couldn’t be—it made no sense, none at all. 

“What?” Fenrys asked. 

“Lyria,” he breathed, as the woman in question opened the door. 

This was not Lady Marion and Lord Lochan’s cottage, but Lyria’s. And something had brought him here, something had pulled him to this place. 

“Rowan,” she said calmly. “Come in.”

He stood there woodenly, unable to move. She looked exactly the same as when he’d last seen her, exactly the same as the day he left, exactly the same as—

“Thank you,” Fenrys said, speaking for him, and grabbing him by the arm to drag him inside. 

“I’m sorry I have no refreshments to offer either of you, we don’t really eat much here. Though I can get you some water if you’d like.” 

Rowan looked at her—forced himself to look at the woman he’d abandoned, to meet her eyes. He could not take her apology, not for anything. 

“It’s alright. I am sorry, Lyria.” His voice broke as he said her name. “I am so very sorry. For coming here, for disturbing you in this peaceful place. And for before. For abandoning you when I should have stayed, for listening to Maeve, for fighting in her wars instead of staying home and caring for you and our child.”

“Thank you,” she said simply, taking a seat at the small wooden table and gesturing for them to sit as well. “It has been many years since I held that against you but there was a time when all I wanted was an apology.” 

“I was not a male worthy of your love, and I wasn’t for many years after your death. I am trying to be better—to be honorable.”

She nodded, and did not tell him that he had acted with honor in the past, or that he did not need to apologize. He had been a male full of pride, then, and they both knew it. 

“Why are you here?” she asked. “Surely you did not come simply to apologize to me.”

He didn’t know what to say. They had not come for her, and he didn’t understand what had led him here. She was not his mate, afterall. A piece of her soul did not live inside of his. But how did he explain that? Did she know already or would the news break her heart? Or perhaps she’d long ago decided that mate or not he was unworthy of her love. 

“Does it have to do with this?” she asked, when he did not contradict her. He followed to where her finger pointed, towards the plant in front of them.

Curled beneath one of the leaves, next to a startlingly orange flower, was a small piece of Aelin’s soul. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowan and Lyria speak, and he sees another memory of Celaena. Kaltain and Emme are in trouble.

Rowan didn’t know how to respond, so he just stared mutely into the plant on the table, watching Aelin’s soul flicker and dance. If he explained to Lyria why they were here, she’d know they were not truly mates, and he’d add to her pain. She also might wonder why Aelin was here—she might resent her coming. Though, from her greeting it seemed as if she already knew some of it. She hadn’t greeted him as a happily mated female would have.

Fenrys nudged him in the side as the silence stretched. 

“Lyria, I don’t know how to explain this,” Rowan said. “We are not...we are not what we thought...that is to say, we are—

“Not mates,” she said, cutting him off. “Yes, I know. Though I can tell that this is new to you?”

He nodded. 

“How?” Fenrys asked. 

“When I died, when I came to the Afterworld, I figured it out. I didn’t feel much different. I didn’t feel like I’d lost the bond. I grieved for us, for our child. For you, Rowan. But I didn’t feel the loss of the bond. And I looked in on you and saw that it had driven you mad and I thought...I thought it had been real for you, and not real for me. Some grave cosmic mistake. But it seems it was not...what it was meant to be, for either of us.”

“I only found out a few months ago myself,” Rowan answered, finally meeting her eyes again. It was good, that she knew. That she had known for a while. She deserved the truth, and he was glad she’d gotten it centuries ago. “Maeve…” He sighed, unsure again of how to explain it. 

Fenrys, thankfully, picked up the thread for him. “Meave faked a bond. She broke into both of your minds and faked a mating bond.”

Lyria’s gaze turned sharp. “To what end?”

“Because she meant to keep me from my real mate. She knew that if we mated it would spell her doom. Together we would be too strong.” 

Lyria got up and walked to the small window in the kitchen and leaned against it. “It is...difficult to hear,” she admitted after a moment. “To know that it was not a cosmic fluke but someone’s masterful plan. To screw with both of our lives so thoroughly. We could have been happy.”

Rowan knew that she meant they could have been happy apart, not together.

“You would have lived,” Rowan said, knowing it was true. Lyria had died because of him, and because of Maeve. Maeve had feared the union between him and Aelin so thoroughly, so completely, that she’d wrecked an innocent woman’s life. And he’d played right into her hands. 

“And you wouldn’t have had centuries of grieving,” Lyria said. She sat back down at the table, a steaming mug in front of her.

“Perhaps I would have fully recognized my mate when I met her,” Rowan said softly. 

For a moment, they sat in silence, contemplating what could have been. The goodness they could have had. Separately, yes, but goodness all the same. 

“Who is she?” Lyria asked, looking up. 

“Was. She’s...she’s…” Rowan found that he could not say the words. They were only half true anyway, as the fire inside of him proved. “She’s not dead, but she nearly is. Her name is Aelin. Aelin Ashryver Galathynius.”

“A member of Terrasen’s royal house?”

“The last,” Rowan confirmed. “And Mala’s heir.” He continued to explain Aelin’s history to Lyria, just what she needed to know to have to all make sense. He spoke of training her in Mistward, of subsequently swearing the blood oath, and when he’d found out they were mates. He glossed over Maeve and Cairn’s torture, knowing that wasn’t his story to tell. But he explained in full how she’d all but died sacrificing herself to forge the lock. 

“Like a lamb to the slaughter,” Fenrys cursed. 

Rowan noticed that his friend’s hands were shaking in his lap. The bond between Fenrys and Aelin was one he was grateful for everyday. That she had had someone with her, that he had had her as well…

“Her soul shattered. In those last moments, I clung to the piece of it that made up the bond, and prevented her from being wiped out completely.” 

Lyria smiled then. “It makes sense now. A week or two ago, this little bit of light—barely more than an ember, really, appeared in my house. Sometimes it buzzes around me, or dancing in the sunlight on the windowsill. Mostly it sits in the planters and garden, floating around. It’s her, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Rowan said, “That’s Aelin.”

“Why here? Why with me? I never knew her.”

Rowan thought, for a moment. “But I did. And you were important to me Lyria, even if...even if I didn’t treat you like you were at the time. She would have wanted to know you, and she would have wanted to give me the chance to apologize. She came here because she somehow knew it would lead me to you. And because you are a part of me, and Aelin...Aelin is my whole self.”

“And because you are her whole self, as well, Rowan,” Fenrys said quietly. “She’s here because you’re mates. Lyria is your beloved dead. She is Aelin’s as well.”

Rowan nodded and reached over to cup the bit of Aelin’s soul in his palms. It fluttered happily around his fingers. 

“I will be sad to see her go,” Lyria said, “But I wish you luck on your quest.” 

Without saying anything else, and knowing that Lyria now understood, something he never thought he’d have, something that only his Fireheart could have given him, he pressed the bit of soul to his chest and waited. 

****

Celaena rolled over in bed, and stuck one leg outside of the blanket to get more comfortable. Rowan’s room at Mistward was far more comfortable than her’s but she was still getting used to the weight of someone else beside her in bed. 

Not since Sam, in those few days they had shared the apartment in Rifthold, had she really slept with someone else. Chaol had slept in her room in the castle once—but it wouldn’t do to think of him now. Not when the ring he’d given her was tucked safely in her pack, unworn now for at least a week. 

She was starting to move on, and gods did she feeling guilty for it. She was starting to notice the male who lay next to her more and more, starting to be inexplicably angry at every person in the fortress who looked at him for longer than a moment. 

She turned over in bed, again, so that she was facing him. So that she could study the lines of his face, and the scrolling text of the tattoo written there. 

It told the story of his mate, of how he’d lost her. Aelin wondered what that was like. Not to lose a mate, but to have one at all. That soul-deep bond that nothing could break. She’d never had that before—with anyone. 

Aedion had been loyal and good, her best friend when she’d had no others. But Aedion was gone now—at least gone from her side—swept away by Adarlan like the rest of Terrasen. And she’d had Sam, then, and Nehemia, and Dorian and Chaol. But they were all worlds away from her now. 

A mate would be nice. Someone to call her own. 

She wondered what Lyria had been like. Who was this woman who Rowan had loved so thoroughly? For a moment, Celaena mourned that she would never meet her, and that there would always be a part of Rowan she didn’t know because of it. 

She pushed the thoughts out of her head and turned to face the ceiling. Lusting over Whitethorn’s pretty face and the fact that she didn’t have a mate of her own wouldn’t get her anywhere. 

“You could try sleeping you know,” the male beside her whispered. 

Rowan had been awake this entire time. She felt herself blush, worried he had somehow discerned the direction of her thoughts. 

“It’s the bed,” she said softly, “too damn hard.”

“I’m sorry, is Her Highness used to finer accommodation?” 

They were facing one another now, faces only inches apart, and she could feel his breath on her skin as he laughed softly. 

“Yes, actually,” she said, “I am. The palace in Orynth was full of feather beds and velvet drapes. And they treated me decently in Adarlan as well, even if I did have to work for that bastard of a king.” As always, it hurt to talk about Orynth but she did it anyway. It was a muscle she needed to start working more and more, a dark spot on her past that she needed to confront. 

“I’m sorry that my humble accommodations are not what Her Highness is used to, or what she deserves,” Rowan said, “I’ll remedy it tomorrow, I promise.”

Celaena fought the urge to put her palm against his cheek, to draw herself closer to him. His words had been soft and sincere, quiet despite the fact that they were the only people in the room. They had lacked Rowan’s usual sarcasm. This was Rowan at his most vulnerable, no magic or swords or fists to protect him or separate them from one another. 

This was the male who had loved Lyria. 

She rolled over onto her back so that she could not longer see him, but still she felt him next to her on the bed, his presence large even as his breath evened out into peaceful sleep. 

She rolled out of bed as silently as possible and put on a few more layers of clothing. She turned to leave, and then the lines of his face snagged in the corner of her eye: harsh, unyielding when he was awake, softer, gentler now, as he slept. 

She bent down towards his cheek, as if to kiss him there, though she knew she couldn’t. He would wake up if she did and she was not yet ready to do anything about the thing that hung between them, and neither was he. She could hardly acknowledge it during the day and it was only the calm press of the hours before dawn that allowed her to bring herself so close to him, her mouth hovering above his cheek, barely a breath between them. 

“It’s already perfect,” she whispered, and then turned away, and left the room, going down the stairs and out the door and towards the ward stones that surrounded Mistward, where she trained with her fire alone for hours, until Mala’s light crested over the hills and woke the rest of the world up once more. 

****

Emme didn’t know what to do. Kaltain was bleeding all over, except it wasn’t like the blood of the real world, it was the substance of her soul, leaking out from everywhere. 

Arobynn had not waited to speak with them long before he attacked, before he set himself and a pair of his lackeys on them. Kaltain was strong, she had fought so well, trying to hard to keep Emme from Arobynn’s grip. But gods—

Kaltain slumped over in Emme’s arms and groaned. They were on the floor of the hall of portals in the palace. Emme had dragged Kaltain here, her own arms bearing numerous scratches and bruises. 

“I thought being dead meant we couldn’t get hurt anymore,” she said, laughing because she had no idea what else could be done. How did you heal someone who was already dead?

“Hell is different,” Kaltain rasped, raising her head a little. “Arobynn now controls...that place...I hold no sway over it...any longer…

She coughed, deep red soul blood spilling down her chin.

“Tell me what to do,” Emme pleaded. 

During the fight, Arobynn had tried to grab Emme, and Kaltain had whirled, turning her back on the two men she was fighting, putting herself in front of Emme, blasting Arobynn with a swirl of dark fire that barely seemed to touch him. 

She was wounded because of Emme. She was here, dying all over again, because of Emme. 

“Elysium,” Kaltain rasped. “Take me to Elysium.” 

Emme nodded frantically and helped the other woman off the floor and towards the portals. The field of heroes. They would find help there, they had to. They had no other choice. 


End file.
